


I Didn't See You There [Abandoned WIP]

by hobbitdragon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Multi, Rape, Repetition Compulsion, Repression, Seheron, Trauma, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon
Summary: Bull as a rape survivor.I really wanted to finish this fic, but after over a year of being stuck and unable to progress in it, I'm calling it abandoned. I'm not posting it in the same document here with my other WIPs because this WIP is much longer. But as with my other WIPs, if anyone reads this and wants to finish it for me or work on coauthoring the rest of it with me, comment to let me know!





	I Didn't See You There [Abandoned WIP]

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: As the tags and summary should show, this fic contains fairly graphic depictions of rape and its aftereffects, as well as the discussion of rape and its cultural 'purpose'. Also, since this is an abandoned WIP, there is no happy ending available. Please read with care.

The first time it happens, Hissrad’s response is  _ I thought rape was supposed to be bad. Huh. _

He had been incautious the day prior; satisfied with his own security check, Hissrad had allowed Ashaad to continue his crochet project rather than sending him out on another patrol. Ashaad’s hearing is-- _ was _ \--better, his night vision superior. Hissrad should have asked. 

Now Ashaad is dead and Hissrad is tied down over some Tevinter contraption that belongs in a Tamassran’s house rather than in a camp to contain prisoners of war. Hell, maybe the ‘Vints raided a Tamassran house and took it, since it’s clearly made with Qunari proportions in mind. Hissrad can’t see enough of it to tell more than that, however.

What the Tevinters are doing to Hissrad doesn’t feel all that different from a visit to the Tamassrans. Sure, Hissrad had killed two of the Vints before they’d taken him down with magic, and he’d permanently maimed another when he’d regained consciousness. Hissrad doesn't much like being tied down, and he’s strapped down good and tight now, with ropework that is effective even if it’s ugly. But the human pumping away behind him is too small to hurt. He’s even used slick. 

So Hissrad lies there, considering the sensations. It  _ is _ rape, Hissrad is under no illusions, because they didn’t ask him permission and he certainly isn’t interested in bending over for a ‘Vint. But now he’s here, it’s nothing like he’s heard. He’s not in a stress position, so now that he’s finished testing the ties his muscles are relaxed and his joints at ease. The guy they picked for this has a dick that feels like it’s on the smaller side of average even for a human. The oil makes everything squelchy and soft, and every once in awhile the guy even hits Hissrad’s prostate. So when Hissrad starts to get hard, he’s not concerned. Might as well have a little fun before they kill him or start in with the real torture. 

For years now, Hissrad has heard that rape is a very effective form of torture because it causes minimal physical damage with a maximum amount of psychological effect. But this is  _ nothing _ . Hissrad is angry about Ashaad’s death, and ashamed of his own foolish mistake, and worried about the ‘Vints escalating from here. But that’s it. In the scope of things happening to him right now, a petite dick in the ass doesn’t rate as a concern. 

“If you angle more forward, this would be a lot nicer for me,” he informs the human behind him. This gets a snarl in Tevene and a hard punch on the ass in response. Hissrad rolls his eyes; he's been spanked harder than that by flies. 

A whole succession of men follow the first. By the end of it, Hissrad is actually a little sore inside, which hasn’t happened since his first memorable session with a  _ saartoh nehrappan. _ Hissrad even managed to sneak in an orgasm, which the ‘Vints didn’t notice until later. They brought in a mage, then, but the man seemed more interested in gloating over their ‘debauched Qunari captive' than actually electrocuting him, so. 

When a rescue party bursts into the camp, killing all the ‘Vints and untying Hissrad from the furniture, the Sten in charge asks Hissrad if he is sound enough for battle. 

“I’m just fine,” Hissrad laughs. 

**

Hissrad can’t sleep for several weeks afterward, but given that his Ashaad died, Hissrad chalks it up to the death. 

But he never shakes, either. 

He, like every other Qunari warrior, has been taught that after a tense situation the body will often shake even if the muscles are not tired. He knows to allow this to happen. But with all the fuss of freeing the other prisoners of war and being moved to a different post in Seheron, Hissrad doesn’t notice the stillness in his own body, and there are no Tamassrans around to check for it. 

That Hissrad does not desire release again for a full month afterward is a meaningless coincidence. He is tired, nothing more. 

When he does desire it again, he turns to a Sten with whom he is on good terms. Hissrad generally likes lying back with his legs spread and letting his partners do the work, but this time when the Sten gets going, Hissrad feels unaccountably anxious and cannot make himself stay hard. He keeps thinking he hears noises outside. 

“Must be hungry, sorry,” Hissrad explains to the Sten, with a wrinkle of his nose. He lets Sten come inside him, and jerks himself off later in the privacy of his tent. 

But everybody goes soft sometimes. And everyone in Seheron is tired. It means nothing, and Hissrad does not dwell on it. 

**

The second time it happens, it’s with a mage. Hissrad is so immobilized by magic that he can barely breathe. The damned ‘Vint keeps hair oil in his pocket, apparently, but he’s not using it for his hair just now. The perfume of it makes it smell like Hissrad is visiting a Tevinter bordello, but at least it works as needed. Hissrad focuses on getting enough air, ignoring the neutral sensation of a human fucking him. 

The mage’s concentration slips, just for a split second, and it’s enough. Hissrad snaps the ‘Vint’s neck, takes a few deep breaths just to feel his lungs expand all the way, and pulls his trousers back on. 

Then he goes back out of the warehouse where the mage had cornered him. Tells the Sten outside, “Must be a back entrance here. Found a mage down there. He’s dead now, but we gotta figure out how he got in.”

By the next day, Hissrad has forgotten everything but the immobilizing spell. 

**

Similar events occur throughout Hissrad’s years on Seheron. When he thinks about it at all, he finds rape vastly preferable to the other forms of torture employed by the ‘Vints. He lost two fingers after the interrogators cut them off a segment at a time, and that meant that once the remaining stubs healed, Hissrad had needed to relearn how to hold a weapon. Damned agonizing when it had been happening, and it put him out of commission for fighting for far too long, so finger removal goes right to the top of his list of most hated torture tactics. Prolonged electrocution destroyed some sensation in his left leg, so Hissrad hates that too. But at least it left him a great burn scar. 

A nice, straightforward rape, though; Hissrad can take a dozen men and just  _ walk away _ afterward.

That he’s cheated the system so thoroughly makes him laugh. Dumbass fuckin’ ‘Vints. They think they’ve discovered this brilliant strategy, but it clearly only works on humans. 

Hissrad doesn’t notice that he mostly tops now, where before he preferred bottoming. He’s nearing twenty-six; everybody changes as they mature. 

**

At twenty-seven, Hissrad turns himself in to the re-educators. Alongside everything else they teach him, Hissrad learns that there doesn’t need to be any outright pain for a thing to be torture. (Not that he disagrees with it, because he doesn’t. But it is torture, he knows that, and he just has to be patient.) After his fourth week in complete isolation, he is willing to do almost  _ anything _ to show compliance. When they then keep him awake for nearly a week, all the while stroking and holding him and praising his compliance and asking him to repeat everything they say, Hissrad does it with earnest pleasure. The drugs they give him make him soft and warm and tired but they don’t let him sleep. He wants sleep, but he can do without. He’s been tired for years, and he loves the Qun. Exhaustion is a small price to pay, much though his body longs for it.

 

By the time they finish, Hissrad feels at peace. He is one with the Qun again, strong and supple and whole in his purpose. Everything in his mind is there by design. Everything in him has been touched and examined and altered to suit his purpose within the Qun. It is good.  _ He _ is good, just as they have told him. 

He is nonetheless pleased when they don’t return him to Seheron. When he notices his own gratitude for that, he thinks nothing of it; if he were supposed to feel something else, they would have trained him to want to return. They did not, so all is well. 

**

During his years in Orlais, Hissrad--now known as the Iron Bull--several times has to seduce targets to finish a task. His body resists but he masters it. He learns how to force an erection even when he is disinterested, and how to climax almost on command. 

He is delighted with his body. It is strong, resilient, reliable, attractive, and it heals well. He is always walking and fighting again sooner than Stitches expects. 

The Bull always tops and everyone knows it. The Bull forgets that Hissrad liked it any other way. 

**

When Fisher’s Bleeders are sent to Nevarra, guarding a caravan heavy with silks and jewels, they stop in an inn for the night. The Bull stays downstairs in the common room, drinking and laughing and eyeing the beautiful elf beside him. There are twenty-two people in the room, including the barkeep and the serving girls, and it is hot and loud. 

When a group of Tevinter soldiers walks in, the Bull watches with an unchanged smile. He counts them and their weapons and relaxes; only five men, one of them scrawny, none of them carrying staffs. Not that that means anything; there are spells to conceal a mage’s staff, and magic can be done even without one. But they are not making an effort to be known as mages, and among ‘Vints that’s as good as declaring you’re not a mage at all. 

They approach the barkeep and ask questions rather than ordering drinks. The Bull’s hackles rise; it’s too much like Seheron for comfort. He can’t hear what they’re asking, but the barkeep nods, gesturing toward the stairs. No money is exchanged yet they head for the sleeping quarters. After a minute’s wait time, to make it look less related, the Bull drains his tankard and excuses himself to take a piss. 

He sneaks upstairs as quiet as he can. The wooden boards squeal as he passes over them, but with the noise in the room below his sounds will go unheard by all but the sharpest ears. In one of the rooms down the hall a couple is vigorously fucking, and their noises of enjoyment further mask the Bull’s movements. 

It’s not till he gets to the third storey of the building that he finds where the ‘Vints went: they’re breaking down a door. He hears splintering wood, loud swearing in Tevene, and a howl of protest. There are several thuds, as of someone being punched. 

“Thought you could run from us, eh? We got  _ special dispensation _ to come after you!” Some words the Bull can’t quite hear, then, “We were such  _ good _ friends before, surely we can be  _ more _ than friends now? You’ll end up a slave when you get back anyway, so a bit of fun now won’t hurt. _ ” _

Smoothing down the tension in his shoulders, the Bull loosens the axe strapped to his back and saunters down the hall.  The Bull walks by the door, glancing inside as if casually, and sees a slim figure on the floor with four of the men looming above. There’s blood all over the person’s face from a gash at the hairline, and the Tevinter men are cutting off the person’s clothes. The one man standing holds a wicked flail, leather tipped with little hooks. 

The Bull’s body moves without any conscious decision at all. Two of the ‘Vints are dead before they even realize there’s another person in the room, and by the time the others think to pull out their swords, they’re in a perfect position for the Bull to cut their hands off. The ensuing mess means that the Bull is in front of the person on the floor by the time the fifth man raises his flail. 

**

Afterward, holding half of Aclassi’s ruined coat to the place where the Bull’s left eye  _ ought _ to be, the Bull has time to regret his hastiness. The pain in the Bull’s skull is vivid and sickening, and the Bull is trying not to vomit. Not everything that’s seeping into the pad of fabric right now is blood, and the Bull has seen eye wounds before. He tries not to think about it, watching as Aclassi tears up his shirt for bandages.

“I don’t know what to say, or how to repay you. If you hadn’t--” the kid begins. But the Bull interrupts, not wanting to hear it. 

“I’ll take any excuse to kill ‘Vints. And anyway, my face is tougher than yours. Look at that baby-soft skin, you’d have lost your looks. This’ll just make me rugged.”

A snort of derision. “Still. You didn’t have to help me, and I’m grateful.”

The Bull forces himself not to shrug. He’s trying not to move much at all, because every time he does, he can feel fabric touching the inside of his skull. 

“Couldn’t stand by and watch you die, kid.”

Aclassi looks askance at the Bull. “You realize that I'm technically a criminal? I ran from the Legion. That's punishable by enslavement. Or do oxmen down south not know about Tevinter laws ?”

The Bull forgets himself for a half-second too long and starts to roll his eyes, only to gasp at the agony that causes. 

“You mean Tal-Vashoth,” he chokes out. “‘Oxman’ is rude, thank you very much.” 

“I’m--fuck, I’m sorry." And Aclassi genuinely looks it, all hot-faced and miserable. It's then that the Bull notices Aclassi's hands are shaking. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful. I just--I’m just glad I didn’t have to live through that. They were gonna....” the boy mumbles. Aclassi looks down and suddenly there are tears. The Bull softens at that, can’t help it. 

“Aww, kid, I know what those shitheads were gonna do. It’s scary now, because you just got out of a fight. But you’ll be fine, promise. Anyway, rape isn’t so bad unless they really make an effort, and ‘Vints rarely do. I’d know.” The Bull almost winces then but stops himself at the last moment. He hadn't meant to admit that, that shit's not comforting at all to someone who's still panicking. But having one of his facial organs forcibly removed isn't doing wonders for his social skills, apparently. 

Aclassi wipes at his cheeks and stares at the Bull with what looks like an expression of horror. But the Bull just shrugs. 

“So you ran from the Legion? What for?” he feigns, pretending he doesn't know the story just by looking at the boy. Every time he looks around the room, his left eye hurts in a way that’s just as bad as an arrow to the gut. Or rather, the socket where an eye  _ should _ be hurts. He’s smart enough to know it’s not an eye in there anymore, and what’s left will have to be removed soon if he’s to survive this without going septic. 

Aclassi looks self-conscious, which is fine because he's not paying attention to the Bull's blunder anymore. “They found out I’m--that I’m not the kind of boy they expected me to be.” The Bull can see a muscle tense in the corner of the lad’s jaw, and he straightens up into a defiant stance, daring the Bull to contradict. Given that the kid is now wearing nothing but breeches and a compression vest laced tight, it would be clear to even the most backwards of humans what the boy means. 

“That not allowed in the Legion? Fuck, you ‘Vints are even more awful than I knew, and I’m saying that as someone who served in Seheron.”

The boy’s eyes go round at that, but then he drops his gaze. “Yeah, well,” Aclassi demurrs. “Anyway, thanks. I can do without more of that kind of issues.”

The Bull concedes with a nod. Rape probably  _ does _ work on humans, after all. 

**

The Bleeders agree to take Cremisius on since this is as close to the border as they will go, and outside of Tevinter slavery is still illegal, so they’re not technically aiding in the escape of a slave. They’re due to leave as soon as the merchants conclude their business anyway, meaning that both the company and the Aclassi boy should both be safe in the arrangement. Nobody wants trouble from the Tevinter armed forces but Fisher's Bleeders can always use another skilled fighter. 

Aclassi proves to be a vicious bastard in combat when he's not outnumbered and caught off-guard. He's never afraid to fight dirty and favors a maul that’s almost the size of the Bull’s axe. The Bull is immediately charmed. 

When the Bull takes over the Bleeders a few months later, he makes sure he keeps Aclassi at his side. 

**

As the years pass, the Bull looks once or twice at Krem and imagines what he’d be like to touch. It’s not difficult, he’s overheard Krem hooking up with a few other people, and heard Krem talk about it with the boys when the conversation on the road gets raunchy. He knows Krem prefers to top. 

When the Bull tries to imagine letting Krem top  _ him _ , though, it’s an uncomfortable, almost unpleasant thought, making something tense up and hold deep in the Bull's gut, right above his bladder.

_ Shouldn’t be thinking of my antaam that way, _ he concludes, and shrugs it off. 

That night, he dreams of Seheron. 

**

Joining the Inquisition is disturbingly easy.  _ Bas _ outside of Tevinter and Kirkwall don’t even begin to understand the threat. Not that the coming of the Qun is a  _ threat _ _,_ exactly, because the Qun would do most people a lot of good. But the Bull tells the Herald to her face that he’s a Qunari spy and she just welcomes him with a smile. It’s disheartening that the only organization trying to close the Breach is this easy to infiltrate. 

When the Bull finds out the Herald has a damned Tevinter mage as a friend, it becomes obvious that the Herald’s blithe but foolish acceptance of others is a dangerous trend. The Bull’s hackles raise, and he immediately re-evaluates the intellect of all the Inquisition’s leaders. It doesn’t matter that House Pavus is a relatively liberal family as Tevinters go, every tree drops bad apples sometimes, and ‘Vints can play a very long game. 

It makes the Bull’s job easier that both the Herald and Pavus are obviously attracted to him. Pavus is too slick to reveal anything important just because he’s slept with someone, but the Herald is a better bet. The Bull has fucked enough people as part of his job that a few more won’t be an issue, but it grinds his gears that he’s in this situation at all.  _ Bas _ just don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. 

When it turns out he doesn’t have to touch either of them to get the information he needs, though, the Bull breathes a sigh of relief. 

**

Becoming Tal-Vashoth was never, ever part of the plan. To add profound insult to injury, the assassins Qunandar sends for him are  _ throwaways _ , sloppy fighters whose only real tactic is poison. He survived in  _ Seheron _ for years, and they send  _ fuckups _ who would have been culled on another mission if they hadn’t died on this one? The message could not be more clear: he has no worth now except to remove other trash from the Qun as he leaves. 

He’s never felt  _ worthless _ before. Adrift, angry, terrified--but never  _ worthless _ , as though he merits no effort or attention at all. 

He hides it well, mostly. Krem sees right through him right away, and is  _ kind _ about the whole situation. Offers to do shield drills again just to make the Bull happy. Buys him the kind of ale he prefers. Sits close but doesn’t say anything directly, because he’s smart enough to know that the Bull won’t talk about it.

It makes the Bull think.  _ Bas _ \--which includes him now, a realization that sends a thrill of horror through him--place so much value on relationships, particularly romantic and sexual ones. If he’s a  _ Tal-Vashoth _ now, he might as well fuck like one. 

**

It takes exactly a week to get Dorian into bed. Bull is downright proud of himself for that. 

Krem takes a while longer, because Bull approaches the situation with more care. But he winds up with the smaller man warm upon his chest, fingers digging into Bull’s biceps. It scares Bull how good it feels. 

“I’ll suck you off,” Bull offers, because right now he can’t imagine anything he’d enjoy more. Krem smells so familiar, like sword polish and leather and Fereldan ale, and it lights a fire in Bull’s chest. Krem nods, and bites him on the neck, and reaches under his own shirt to undo the lacing on his binder. Then with a sigh of relief at that, he squirms out of his trousers, revealing gorgeous smooth thighs and a thick thatch of hair that wafts mouth-watering scent up at Bull. 

Bull wraps his hands around Krem’s hips and dives into him like a starving man. Krem tastes a little like Nevarran olives, salty on Bull’s tongue, and his hipbones fit into Bull’s palms like they were made to go there. Krem isn’t shy about grabbing his horns, either, and pulling Bull just where he wants him.  Bull licks and licks at him, going after every trace of Krem’s taste and covering his own face in the smell of him. He wants to wear  _ eau de Krem _ like a fucking Orlesian perfume after this.  _ Maybe forever, _ an unfamiliar voice in Bull adds, but there’s too much else going on for him to think too closely about it. When Krem pushes him down, Bull curls his tongue into him like a question mark, wondering how much better this could possibly get. 

Afterward, the memory of Krem’s climax still echoing in Bull’s mouth, Krem lets out a low chuckle of satisfaction. 

“Damn, Chief.”

“Yeah,” Bull agrees, every bit as surprised. He’s always liked giving head, but he hadn’t expected it to be  _ this _ good just because it was Krem.

_ You have feelings for him, _ the little voice in Bull remarks again. He ignores it. People think all sorts of throwaway thoughts. 

“You gonna let me fuck you now?” Krem asks. 

A weird twisting sensation flares up in Bull’s belly. He’s hard enough to ache and letting Krem inside him sounds okay. It’s been a long time since he let anyone touch him there, but he remembers he used to like it very much. 

“Nah, not tonight,” Bull says. “Love it if you gave me a hand, though.”

Krem’s so much smaller that it takes both hands. When they finish, Bull rubs his semen into Krem’s shoulders and back, and though Krem complains about the smell and how gross it is, he allows it. Bull feels a little wild afterward, tension in his hands and jaw that he doesn’t know how to sate. He can’t think of anything (except dragons) that would be more enticing than Krem smelling like Bull’s own pleasure. 

It’s enough to get him hard again. But he lets it go, and falls asleep contented with his nose buried in Krem’s nape. 

**

The next day, Bull can’t even wait till evening. He pulls Krem up to his room right after training, buries his face in Krem’s armpit, and breathes the concentrated of scent of him still hot from exertion. Krem’s human, so it’s not quite perfect. But it’s  _ him _ , even if he does laugh at Bull for his weird ways.

“Is this how you are, Chief? You just huff people’s smelly bits when you’re randy? How have I never heard about how weird you are in bed before now?”

Bull has always liked the different ways people smell, especially when he gives head. And the Grey People do have more sensitive noses, so smells have always been more distinctive and individual to him than they would be to a human or a dwarf. But Bull shrugs, grinning. 

“Nah, kid. Just you, so far.”

Krem blinks at him, momentarily at a loss for words. Then he smiles, slow and warm. 

“You’re going soft, Chief, in more than just the gut. Now get over here.”

This time, when Krem is satiated and asks if he can fuck Bull, the twisting sensation is Bull’s gut is worse. But he says yes, because he hasn’t done it in so long and Krem wants it. 

Krem gets two fingers in and there’s a ringing in Bull’s ears. He puts his hand up to his face, to wipe away a droplet of sweat before it gets in his eyes. The musky smell of Krem’s sex intensifies as his hand traps air close to Bull’s face, and the ringing recedes, a little. 

Turns out Krem has just as much right to boast about being a proficient lover as Bull does. It’s not long before he’s got Bull spread around half his hand, coaxing clear liquid out of Bull’s prick with every deft twist of Krem’s arm. The pleasure blooms up through Bull like blood in water, and Bull comes harder than he has in years, even if the pleasure seems strangely far away and unreal. He’s never been fucked by anyone he knows this well before, though, so maybe that’s just how it is.  _ Bas _ describe sex between intimates in all sorts of bizarre terms so it seems like a reasonable assumption. 

He’s twitchy the rest of the day, with the uncomfortable sense he’s being watched by someone dangerous. He scrutinizes everyone in the Herald’s rest and the courtyard and the dining hall. At dinner, his appetite unexpectedly deserts him, and all he can think about is poison. 

His dreams are muddled and chaotic, full of lightning and ozone and burned hair. When he wakes up, he remembers the feeling of having two whole hands and both eyes, and curses the loss of them all over again.

**

Dorian comes back to Bull’s room a few days later, interested in a repeat encounter. Bull lets him in with a smile, ties him down, and fucks him so slow that Dorian sets fire to the curtains when Bull finally allows him to come. Bull feels immensely powerful at that--Tevinter mages, moreso than any other mages in the world, pride themselves on their perfect control of their magic. And Dorian is an  _ altus _ , better trained than most.

“You starting a ‘Vint collection now?” Krem asks Bull the next night, downstairs in the crowded common room. Bull wraps his left arm around Krem’s waist, pulling him close--and keeping Bull’s blind side covered. 

“Nah. Just the two of you.”

He’s not sure if Krem’s saying more underneath the words. Does Krem think a week of sex is enough to start a relationship? People have grown attached to Bull for less, but every  _ Bas _ has a different rubric for what quantity of which type of intimacy equates to what amount of commitment. Is Krem jealous? Should Bull ask? 

“Dorian’s tolerable for an altus, I guess,” Krem says, and Bull turns to scrutinize the smaller man’s face. Nothing in his expression or voice seems to indicate unhappiness, just some skepticism, and Krem is not usually a closed book to Bull. “What’s he want with you?”

“Same thing most people want with me,” Bull shrugs. “A good lay. We talk a lot on the road, though, when we’re traveling with the Boss. He’s kinder than he pretends to be.”

“And what about you? What do you want from him?”

Bull shrugs again, unaccountably anxious about this conversation. 

“Same thing, really. A good lay and conversation on the road.” If this were anyone else, Bull would leave it there, change the subject, and leave quietly as soon as he could. But Krem isn’t some fetishist chasing after him in Orlais where one or two fucks out of boredom or political gain is all Bull would ever want. It’s  _ Krem _ . So Bull makes himself ask for more information, for once uncertain if he wants to hear it. 

“Is that gonna be an issue?”

“No, I was just wondering,” Krem says with a shrug that pushes his shoulder into Bull’s side. Bull wonders if Krem is telling the truth. Usually when he lies, he looks up and to the left, but right now he’s looking at the pretty bard instead. Hard to tell what that means.

Krem is a romantic at heart, Bull knows. He’s talked about wanting to get married one day, since he’s out of Tevinter now and it’s legal for him to do so regardless of his sex or his partner’s. And like most ‘Vints, his feelings run strong and deep. Like an underground river, Bull thinks, into which a careless miner might break at any moment--and drown.

“You’re suddenly fucking your friends now, so who knows what you’ll do next,” Krem says, and smiles at him. Bull makes himself smile back. 

The remark sits under Bull’s skin like a burr for the rest of the day, and he mentally scratches at it, trying to dig it loose. 

**

 

 

 

[This is where I got stuck in writing. Bull is picking Tevinter men unconsciously without realizing it, and thus ends up seeing both Dorian and Krem--and because it's Dorian and Krem, it ends up being fine. But how does that happen? How do their relationships work in this context? I haven't been able to figure that out or write it.]

 

 

 

[The scene below was just me figuring out Bull's POV on Dorian and Krem and maybe isn't even relevant to the story.]

 

Bull almost regretted going out with the Boss and Dorian because Dorian was beautiful to watch in a fight and Bull was always too distracted to attend properly. 

Dorian used magic with such obvious pleasure, with  _ charm _ . He used magic like it was a dance, graceful and rhythmic and utterly without shame. 

Bull remembered the Saarebas with whom he’d worked in Seheron. Qunari mages were different than human and elf mages, he knew this. Even on a physical level they were different from non-mage Qunari, built even more massive, hulking and huge even beside someone as big as Bull himself. Only the really powerful ones got stitched, of course, and only right before they were sentenced to death. But sending a Saarebas to Seheron  _ was _ a death sentence, so stitched and silent was mostly how Bull had seen them. Big, obedient, and  _ horrifyingly _ powerful. 

Outside of Seheron and Tevinter, mages were kept to Towers. Oh, sure, there were always a few secret stowaways among ordinary Bas society. Like Dalish. But until joining the Inquisition, Dalish had been Bull’s only real mage acquaintance, and he knew enough to understand that she was not representative of anything but herself. 

Dorian was nothing like a Saarebas or a even a Circle mage like Madame Vivienne. He giggled at Varric’s bad jokes and spoke in low gentle tones to Cole even after Cole had made him cry that one time. He was an utter arsehole to Blackwall, in a weirdly sexualized way, and flirted with Cullen at every possible opportunity just to see how pink he could get the Commander to go.  And some nights at Skyhold, Dorian quietly retreated to a corner of the upstairs space, away from everybody else, and drank until he could barely walk back to his own rooms.

But even then he showed no risk of losing control of his magic as he had that one time with Bull. Though the Templars among the Inquisition ranks muttered that the Evil Magister had to be possessed, Bull saw no signs of it. And if Cullen (paranoid mage-hater that he was) saw no issue with Dorian, then Bull certainly couldn’t find anything to be afraid of.

Bull found himself strangely moved, watching Dorian. Another beautiful thing that Tevinter had wrecked and cast aside, like Krem. And yet, again like Krem, a beautiful thing that Tevinter had nonetheless made and shaped in every aspect, including all the parts that made them most precious and most unwanted by Tevinter itself. 

They were damaged in such different ways, each of them. Krem had an unshakeable fear of debt, hoarding his money and refusing to spend even a single coin more than he had to. He was always conning drinks out of anyone who could be convinced to front one for the handsome young Lieutenant; if Krem had to pay for his own alcohol, he simply did not drink. And while he’d drop coin on better armor or repairs for his weapons, he haggled with merchants for good fabric and sewed his own clothes. Anything to increase the small fortune he now had stashed in various places across four different countries.

Dorian, meanwhile, held onto a wicked shame that underlaid all his ostentatious self-flattery. A hatred of himself and his sexual inclinations meant he snuck into and out of Bull’s rooms as though he still believed that being seen would ruin him. He’d talk to Bull in bright daylight, laugh and joke and fight with him, wrap him in magical shields and bandage his wounds when Dorian ran out of mana. But to let it known he allowed a man make him feel good,  _ that _ left Dorian small and shaky as he never was otherwise. 

And despite the fact that he’d rant at great length about the folly of his parents in expecting him to be perfect, Dorian clearly expected it of himself. He fumed in vicious silence whenever he made mistakes, or tried to cover them up with more of his bravado. He fussed over his appearance, too, becoming irrationally upset whenever the weather or a fight or anything else mussed his perfect looks. As if a disarrayed mustache would cause everyone around him to lose respect. 

  
  


 

[The partial scene below IS one I think happens later, but I don’t know how to connect it with anything I have written above.]

  
  


"You always top," Dorian pouts, rolling over in bed away from Bull. "I'm starting to wonder if that means something."

Bull laughs, squeezing Dorian's shoulder. "Well yeah, it means I have a great dick and you have a great ass."

But at this, Dorian pulls away, turning so his back is to Bull. Bull admires the fine musculature and tries not to feel concerned. 

“There is a reason why ‘fuck you’ is an insult across all of Thedas,” Dorian explains. “It comes from the Empire, when Tevinter ruled all these lands. In Tevinter, being fucked is....Well, if you’re a man it’s admitting that you’re  _ weak _ , passive, a statement that you are allowing yourself to be lesser. If you want to prove to someone that you are in charge, you fuck them--figuratively if not literally, but more often literally than anyone in Tevinter wants to admit. A quick abduction and sodomizing is considered a cheaper alternative to assassination in some circles. Even women do it, especially with disobedient slaves.”

“That’s  _ not _ what getting fucked means,” Bull growls. It feels like something’s trying to crawl up the back of his throat and it makes him want to shout and bite. “I  joked about conquering you, yeah, but that’s not what  _ I _ mean when I fuck you, and I damn well hope it’s not what  _ you _ mean when you say you want to fuck me!” Bull remembers ‘Vints behind him, on top of him, pressing inside his body. He’d known why they did it, of course. But to hear it said this way, by Dorian, makes Bull want to grab his axe. 

“I know that,” Dorian sighs, exasperated, and throws his hands up. “But I can’t help the thoughts in the back of my mind, telling me that every time I let you have me, that I’m admitting I’m weak. I’d like sometimes to walk away from our encounters feeling....strong. Confident. Not doubting myself for days afterward.”

Bull softens, and looks gently at Dorian’s face until the smaller man meets his eye. 

“I want you to feel that way too, and it worries me that you don’t,” Bull tells him, keeping his voice low. “But we’re good how we are, Dorian, you  _ love _ what we do. We can fix this some other way, we don’t need to turn this situation into something it’s not.”

_ “ Equal _ _,_ you mean?” Dorian snaps, but then his face smooths out. It’s not calm, though; it’s  _ poise _ , and it alarms Bull to see Dorian pulling on the slick aristocratic mask here in private. “Do not presume to tell me what I do or don’t want. I am  _ telling _ you that I desire this. Even if it bore no emotional weight for me at all, I enjoy being on the other side of things sometimes just for variety’s sake. I am not a catamite, to be solely content with always being the one to receive.”

“But this is just how we are,” the Bull protests, and hates himself for saying it because it’s stupid and childish and whiny. And moreover it’s the wrong answer, Bull knows it before it even leaves his lips. It just comes out. 

“Maker’s balls, Bull, it’s like I’m home in Tevinter!” Dorian sneers, pulling away to stand on the hard wood floor. He starts to tug his breeches on, and that's a very bad sign. “You sound just like old Cato, always telling me how I was meant to be a good lad and take it without complaint.”

Bull hides the flinch, hides any visible response at all, but he’s lost control of his mouth somehow. 

“What is it with ‘Vints and wanting to  _ fuck _ me?” he snaps back. “Am I wearing catnip that draws ‘Vints to my ass? I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime after all the ones who did it in Seheron! And now it’s you  _ and _ Krem both!”

The silence after this seems to stretch like taffy, thick and resistant at first but then sagging down long and flaccid the further it goes. A rush of words bubbles at the back of Bull’s throat for several seconds, but it subsides too when Dorian simply stares, his eyes wide. Bull has the uncomfortable memory of Krem doing the same thing, years ago. 

“I apologize,” Bull says at last, wanting that stare to stop. Dorian’s nails trace the seams of his trousers, where leather and fabric and metal intersect. A nervous tic Bull has often noted. “I won’t speak to you that way again. I hear what you're saying, it's just--”

“I had no idea,” Dorian breathes, sounding shaken as he interrupts. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I would have asked more gently if I’d known.”

Bull shrugs. “Happens in Seheron, and everything else was much worse. It’s why I don’t talk about it much. The mention of that much pointless death kills any conversation. I should know better by now than to bring it up.”

“That’s not what I mean, and I think you know that,” Dorian sighs, one hand rising automatically to his scalp to smooth his hair. Another nervous tic. “I’m a necromancer, I can handle gory details. It’s a different matter when someone I’m sleeping with tells me they’ve been raped.”

Bull snorts. "No it isn't. I've been tortured a bunch of different ways."

But Dorian's brows wrinkle up over his nose and he stares at Bull for a long time again. 

"You honestly believe that, don't you," Dorian says at last. "That it's no different."

 

 

 

[aaaaaand that's all I've got.]

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me comments with suggestions or thoughts! I'm still really attached to this piece, but as I said, it's clear I'm not going to finish it alone.


End file.
